by N. K. Smith
Sometimes it just hurt to look at him.
He was so hopeful that it made me ache. Hadn’t the hope been beaten out of him? How was it that he could just keep on going as if the universe hadn’t stacked all the cards against him? How could he be shut down so many times but still try?
I didn’t know the details of his past, but I knew he was here, living with a man who wasn’t his father, with two kids who weren’t his siblings. I knew about his stutter and I could only imagine how that had messed with his head when he was younger, hindering his ability to connect with kids his age. I knew his stupid bitch of a mother killed herself in front of him, and I knew despite that, he still loved her like she was an angel.
But that was all I knew.
He didn’t talk about his father, but the man looked like an asshole, so I could understand.
Elliott wasn’t comfortable talking about his brother either.
But he was so… I didn’t know how he could keep going to school every day with the weight he carried around. The weight I felt pulled me down constantly, and the only thing that kept me going most days was the buoy of the constant stream of numbness I got from pot, or whatever else was on the table.
I wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but I was leaning into him, resting back against him on his couch. The heat of his body felt good and right. He was always so warming, and not just in a sexual way either, although it was becoming much more difficult for me to keep my hands off of him. The only thing that helped was the fact that he always stopped, as if we’d crossed some line of “too much,” when in reality, it was never enough.
“How are your hands?”
“B-better.”
“Do they hurt?”
“N-not really.”
“Chris hasn’t been in school all week. You should kick the shit out of him every Monday to save us from having to see his stupid face.”
I shifted and twisted, turning to look directly at him now. He was fine with me taking him in for all of twenty seconds, and then when I didn’t say anything, he fidgeted, looking away as he tensed up.
“Why do you do that?”
He shook his head, his lips pursing together as he tried to say something. I assumed he wanted me to clarify my question.
“Why do you think so badly of yourself?” His eyes widened, but then he looked down at his hands. “I mean, you know that you’re better than what you think you are, right?”
It was a stupid question, because obviously he didn’t.
I turned so that we were face-to-face, and then got onto my knees to get next to him. I was close enough that my breasts brushed his shoulder. “You act like you’re an ugly guy who was born with a face that no one wants to see, but that’s not you.”
He turned toward his wall of music as he scratched the back of his neck.
“You’re sexy.”
Elliott drew in a shaky breath and then it looked as if he was going to get up. If I had to guess, it was to put on some music to calm himself.
I didn’t want him to, so I straddled him as had become my custom. As he began to breathe deeper and quicker, he put his hands on my hips and I suddenly realized that because they were injured, he wouldn’t be able to control my movements.
His breath was accompanied by a low groan.
That groan was sexy as hell and it made everything inside of me vibrate.
As I kissed the line of his jaw, I loved that he hadn’t been able to shave, leaving reddish-blond whiskers to tickle my lips and tongue as I ran it along his flesh.
I needed him. I needed him to want me like I wanted him. I needed him to need me this way, so when he used his still-injured hands to push me away, it wounded me as much as it had the first time.
Like always, I pressed myself into him more. “No one will know, Elliott. You don’t have to tell anyone.” I sucked his earlobe. “Or you can tell everyone, I don’t care, just…just…”
“SSSSoph-phie,” he gasped.
I bit my lower lip and squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted him, and he kept pulling this shit despite the fact that I could feel how much he wanted me. “Please?” I practically begged.
“SSS-SSS-SSSS…”
I pulled away, getting off of him. “Yeah, I know, ‘we can’t’.”
He reached out and kept me from getting up. I fought against the urge to yank my wrist out of his loose hold. It would have injured him even more. “SSSSophie, p-please don’t be mad.”
I wasn’t mad. I was disappointed. I wanted him and I needed him more than I should have.
I felt a feathery touch on my cheek and instantly I jerked my head away. It took a moment, but I forced my jaw to relax and I kept myself from batting his hand away.
He knew that I didn’t like my face touched, and yet he did it anyway.
“Stop,” I said quietly, and got up. I went over to his iPod and fiddled with it until music came out. “I’m not mad, Elliott.”
I heard him get up, but I didn’t look at him. I felt him next to me, but I didn’t react. “You ssssseem m-m-mad.”
I crossed the room to get away from him very deliberately, because he needed to know that if he was going to reject me like that, I needed at least a few feet of distance in order to redirect the lusty thoughts I was having. I glided my fingers along the spines of the books on the lowest shelf. They were his art and music books. “I’ll tell you when I’m mad.”
“T-tell mme w-what you’re thinking r-right now.”
“You don’t want to know,” I said with a sigh.
“I d-do.”
Fine. I supposed if he wanted to know, I should tell him. “I want to have sex with you, and I’m trying to be good because you deserve someone who’s good, but I can’t seem to find the right balance. I want you, but can barely manage to get you to let me stick my tongue in your mouth.”
Unfortunately, my bluntness caused him to choke on air and I spun around to see him practically gasping for breath. I couldn’t do anything right, and I realized in order to be good for Elliott, I needed to stop being so blunt, because he obviously couldn’t handle it.
But it was hard to keep my hands off of him when I was near him. He was over there nearly panicking and I felt like shit because I caused it.
So I went over to him, deciding to touch him the only way he would allow me to without freaking out, gently massaging his scalp as I softly held his bandaged hand. After a moment, his breathing returned to normal and his heart rate regulated itself to a normal pace. He expelled a breath and I moved away from him, because the closeness was suddenly suffocating.
“I have to go, Elliott.”
“D-d-don’t.” He grabbed for my hand, but I was too quick.
“I have to work in the morning.”
“Y-y-you alw-ways lllleave, SSSSophie. D-d-don’t llleave.”
He had a point, but I wasn’t about to concede. “I have to go.”
My hand was on the doorknob and I stopped for a moment, contemplating staying in his room until I absolutely had to leave, but when he came closer, my body and mind reacted. It was time to go. “So, yeah, you can e-mail me or whatever, and maybe we’ll do something Sunday.”
It was the last thing I said before leaving the room, and Elliott, behind.
My whole body registered that it hurt to be so far away from him, but I couldn’t go back now.
“Hey, don’t touch that!” I spun around, immediately pulling my hand away from the powered pallet jack. Brody leaned in closer to me. I hadn’t realized that he was even in the backroom. “You’re not eighteen yet.”
His smile was much too smug, and I couldn’t help but smile back, my initial fear fading to nothing. “I wasn’t going to use it or anything, but that flashing green light just kept taunting me.” I shrugged.
“You’
re hell-bent on doing things you’re not supposed to, aren’t you?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That thing would eat you alive. I know this guy on third shift who nearly lost his foot.”
I looked at him. There was a sparkle in Brody’s eyes that told me he was actually a nice guy, and not just someone who wanted to bend me over the pallet of sugar cookies. I’d liked him from the first moment I met him, but after working with him a little longer, I appreciated having him here. An entire eight-hour shift probably would have driven me crazy, but he made it fun.
“You’re just fucking with me. I bet I could handle it better than you do.”
His smile widened and he took a step back, fiddling with the back-stock product on a cart. “I have no doubt you’d be able to operate that equipment, Sophie.” He paused and looked down the other side of the backroom, and then to me. “But you’re not eighteen.” He shifted, angling himself away. “Want to go throw some milk?”
I could think of a million things that I’d like to do more than fill the dairy case, but I supposed if I had to do it, at least I would have Brody for company.
I kept thinking about Elliott and how he was steadfastly denying me. I glanced at Brody as he used both hands to bring four gallons up to the top rack. He had beautiful arms. I could watch him work all day and would often have to force myself to stop thinking about him and his beautiful arms.
He was so fine. I could totally do him.
His status of bangable hottie aside, he wasn’t Elliott, and just as much as I’d been looking at Brody’s arms, I’d been thinking about Elliott’s hands even more.
I had an e-mail waiting for me after work on Saturday and just like always, I felt a shot of excitement. This one made me even more excited than usual, since Elliott and I hadn’t e-mailed lately.
Hi, Sophie,
How was work? I’m not sure whose turn it is (if we’re keeping track), so I thought I would just start.
What do you do all day at work?
If you had to pick one or the other, would you rather be blind or deaf?
If you could win anything, other than the lottery or money, what would it be?
Why didn’t you live with your father when you were little?
Why do you always run so far away when we spend time together?
Bonus: We never really set plans for Sunday, if you still want to hang out. When do you work?
Elliott.
Before I could hit reply, a little box popped up.
EDalton123: Hi.
YoSoph: What’s up, Elliott? I was just going to reply to your e-mail. How are your hands?
EDalton123: Better. How was work?
YoSoph: Work-like. They changed my shift for tomorrow because I have to help build some stupid holiday display. It’s not even a few days after Halloween and they’re already putting up Christmas shit.
EDalton123: Don’t you like Christmas?YoSoph: No, do you?
EDalton123: I don’t know.
YoSoph: You don’t know?
EDalton123: Since they changed your schedule, does that mean we won’t get together tomorrow?
YoSoph: Yeah. I work 1 – 9.
EDalton123: Okay. I suppose I’ll see you Monday? I can still pick you up, right?
YoSoph: Of course. Are you no longer suspended?
EDalton123: I’ve been paroled. What about you?
YoSoph: Still “grounded” but Tom fails to understand that I don’t really go anywhere anyway, so it’s not like he’s “teaching” me anything.
My instant messaging conversation with Elliott carried me through the evening. I’d only gotten high twice today, once before work and once on my lunch break. Although I wanted to be high right now, I was going to try to get through this evening on my own.
After he signed off, I replied to his e-mail, feeling as though it wasn’t right to let his questions go unanswered for very long. In truth, the e-mail format of our relationship was growing stale. It wasn’t that I didn’t like learning new things about him or sharing bits and pieces of myself, but I would rather have been in his presence while doing it.
But he was much more comfortable using the written word and I understood that. Hell, even I was more comfortable putting the shit in my head inside of an e-mail. The stuff we asked was hard to answer. I probably would have chickened out if he was sitting right next to me.
I liked that Elliott had the power to make me nervous and get me to tell him all of the nasty things I’ve held inside. I had never told anyone about the fork in my neck or the burns on my tongue, but somehow Elliott managed to make me want to tell him.
Elliott,
I’m glad your suspension is up. School is boring without you.
So, the answers:
What do you do all day at work?
I mostly put up stock. Take stuff out of boxes and put it on shelves. Like I said, tomorrow I have to build a big display or something. I’m sure it’ll be stupid.
If you had to pick one or the other, would you rather be blind or deaf?
Can I pick neither? If I had to pick one, I’d rather be deaf because I don’t like the dark.
If you could win anything, other than the lottery or money, what would it be?
I don’t want to win anything. Should I be striving to win something?
Why didn’t you live with your father when you were little?
I don’t know. I always assumed he didn’t want me, so I never asked him if I could live with him.
Why do you always run so far away when we spend time together?
Because you’re one of the things I’m afraid of. And before you even ask, here’s the answer to the question you’re thinking right now: You didn’t do anything to make me afraid of you, and physically, I’m not. But emotionally, it’s a different story. I don’t really know how to stay away from you, even though everything inside of me is shouting that it’s time to bail the fuck out.
I don’t let people touch my face. I don’t go to the movies with people. I don’t hold hands, and I sure as fuck don’t dance. Yet, I’ve done all those things with you.
I don’t know what the hell that means, Elliott. No one’s ever asked me what my favorite flower is, or about any of my scars.
I want to be with you all the time, but I don’t know how to be with you at all. That’s scary as hell.
And I’m trying to be better for you because I know you don’t like drugs. I’m trying not to get high, but it’s just not working out that well. I don’t know, maybe I’m not trying, but I have intentions to try.
Christ, sorry for the ramble.
My turn:
How do you not know if you like Christmas?
Tell the truth; how awesome did it feel to beat the shit out of Anderson?
How can you have panic attacks one day, and then save Jane when she’s bloody and needy the next, and not even panic just a little?
If you were an animal, which one would you be?
What is your least favorite of all the books that you’ve read?
Thank you for helping me paint my walls. They’re much nicer now. I’m sorry we can’t hang out tomorrow but maybe you could come over for dinner on Monday.
S.
I started feeling really antsy about five minutes after I hit send, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t have put all that shit in my e-mail. I should’ve just told him I was finished sharing and been done with it. The shit between Elliott and me was incredibly…well, I didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t normal. It was difficult to understand, and I felt like I was swimming as hard as I could against the current to avoid drowning.
I was getting tired.
I knew he didn’t like drugs,
obviously, but I only wished he knew how hard it was to stay afloat some days without them.
I really wanted to be high right now. I wouldn’t have been so uptight about the e-mail. A little bit of pot would relax me.
Horrible words and a nasty, foul voice reverberated in my head, giving me chills. An echo of the past that I’d pushed down a long time ago was back, and before I could stop myself from thinking about it, I was in my room in Tampa again.
“Just breathe it in, Sophie,” he said, his hand on my thigh while holding a joint very close to my mouth. He stroked my cheek with his pinkie finger and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to focus on something other than his touch.
I leaned forward, my lips barely touching the paper, and inhaled, because it didn’t matter if I didn’t want to; it was going to happen, just like everything else in my life. He wanted me to do it, so I did it.
“That’s it, Sophie, good girl.”
I sputtered and coughed as it burned my throat and lungs. It tasted horrible and I felt like spitting. I doubled over.
He laughed. “You’ll never get high like that.” My mom wasn’t home, so he wasn’t being quiet. “Here,” he said as he pulled me up. The joint now hung from his mouth. “When I do this,” he said, running his index finger over my exposed collarbone, “you breathe in, okay?”
I nodded and watched as he took a big pull off of the smoking joint and held it in his mouth. Then he leaned in and I cringed as he pressed his lips to mine. He stroked my collarbone with his finger and then moved lower.
I was supposed to do something.
Breathe, I had to breathe.
My lungs were on fire again and my eyes were wide. He clamped his hand down on my wrist. Before I could exhale, his eyes changed and I knew it was time for him to be mean.
He put his hand over my mouth while pinching my nose with his thumb and index finger. “You have to hold the shit in.”
I couldn’t breathe and I panicked, kicking out my legs as I tried to pull his hand off my mouth. I couldn’t do it. Then he suddenly released me and I could breathe again, if that’s what you’d call what I was doing through the painful coughing.